Something that seemed as hard and hot as a baked paving-stone seemed to settle between my chest and my throat as I fumbled at the last button of my long white gloves, and, in answer to Mr. Waters’ business-like “Ready, Miss Trant?” I rose to follow him out. Lady Vandeleur’s tortoiseshell-handled lorgnette rose also. I saw her turn a searching scrutiny upon my blond, glossily-groomed, well-to-do looking escort. Again a horrible hint of what she might be thinking of me passed through my mind. She knew I worked now in the City; she would think—Sydney would think—I had made it an excuse for “picking up” the attentions of a wealthy business-man, perhaps my employer. From every point of view it is considered “bad form” for the head of a firm to have anything to say to his typist out of business-hours. All this she would say to Sydney, and to that girl. No, I couldn’t stand that! There seemed only one thing in the world for me to do. “I’m forced into it,” I thought rapidly, “so here goes.” I touched Mr. Waters’s sleeve, murmuring: “Please wait a moment.” He stopped, looking down at me inquiringly. I turned, smiling, to that slim, expensively-gowned figure of outraged propriety at the other table. I accosted her as if I thought she had not seen me. “Lady Vandeleur, don’t you know me?” My own voice sounded strangely artificial in my ears, but, thank goodness, it was steady enough, with every syllable distinct. “Will you allow me to introduce Mr. Waters, my fiancé?” There! It was said! Transformation scene upon that carefully-preserved face at the table! Gone, vanished, was the icy displeasure. A radiant smile, a gracious bow to the imperturbable Mr. Waters met my announcement. An effusive clasp of both my own hands. “My dear child, what surprising, what delightful news! How glad I am for you,” cooed Lady Vandeleur. How glad she was for herself—glad to think that a hopelessly ineligible girl, for whom Sydney had always displayed a regrettable weakness, was now safely out of harm’s way—and his! Her gratification at this made her quite as affectionate as she had been in the days when the Trant family was still worth marrying into. “So long since we heard anything of you, you naughty child! But this quite makes up. Yes, we _were_ away; but there were alterations in our plans”—with a quick gesture, a quick glance, towards the pretty débutante opposite to her, evidently her latest “plan” for Sydney. “Now we are back in town for the season. The old address, you know, in Belgrave Square. Wednesday is my afternoon. Now, promise you will come and see us. A ‘soon’ Wednesday, mind! Do bring your _fiancé_!” “I shall be delighted.” It was the Governor’s imperturbable voice that answered her. At that moment I could not have spoken.